


A Burning Hill

by GreenGhoul



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Abigail walked so my OC could run, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenGhoul/pseuds/GreenGhoul
Summary: "Where I have wounds, you have scars. I want you to know one thing and one thing only: Nothing is more true than that misfortune brings understanding."





	1. Intro

The road to redemption is an uphill battle, a cold mountain trek, a cross on your back to plant at the summit. Yet, you still drag your feet across the snow, muscles aching, jaw clenching till your teeth shatter in your mouth like the millions of tiny good intentions you’ve planted like crumbs behind your back, a sorry trail of promises you can’t look back on because if you turn, even if just for a second, that burden your carrying will bury you deep. And that snow, that burning cold that whips at your cheeks with the coming winds, turning whatever anger you burned with into ash in your mouth, the last remaining smoke puffing out with your every breath. That snow is relentless.

You’ll fall, and maybe when your chest hits the frozen ground below you, maybe then you’ll realize that this was the whole point. Redemption ain’t about being seen, and it sure as hell ain’t about making it to the top. It’s about the falling. Your story ends here, the ash turned to dirt in your mouth, the cross turned to ice, the snow hiding you away from a world you’ve already turned your back on. No one to see how far you’ve come, knowing that even if they wanted to, it was far too cold to shed a tear. In the end all you have is the journey, being able to say you tried even with nothing to show for it. Maybe being heard is enough.

And was that what they were looking for out here, redemption or an end? Or was this just another snowstorm? Just another mountain too far from civilization to care about such superficial ideals? The snow was too cold, the winds too loud to worry about anything other than surviving. At any cost, at least that’s what their fearless leader always said. Their humble little group of outlaws,  _ that _ was family, and family was the shield and the sword you learn to die on. Lately that was starting to seem like exactly what they came out here to do.

But she was being dramatic, and who could really blame her when the better part of their two day journey up this mountain was spent pressing her palms against the leaking wound of a dying man whose cross was long buried before he could ever see the peak. Whispering false promises she wasn’t even sure she could convince herself of.  _ You’re gonna be okay _ , she says, watching the fresh bandages leak over as the man’s breath starts to sizzle out. Truth was he was already dead, and they were dying. Truth was if they didn’t find some place soon this storm was gonna make meals out of all of them. Truth is there’s nothing on this mountain to be found, only lost. Lost and forgotten.

“Dutch!” Tulip shouts, barely able to see the silhouette of the man buried in his coat but sitting tall at the seat of the carriage he was driving them in. She knocks her knuckles, once, twice on the wooden frame of his seat, and he turns squinting against the snow. “It’s Davey. He’s dead.” 

Dutch’s face drops, the determined look he once carried dropping just enough for regret to take hold of him. A second passes and it’s gone, his eyes find the blood stained on her hands, the worried look on her face, and he frowns. “Get him covered. We’ll find someplace soon.” He promises, and Tulip can’t help but wonder if she’s the dying man now, and Dutch is pressing on her wounds. 

Still, she takes the words with ease, no use in fighting against it now. She nods, slips back into the cart beside the now lifeless body, waiting for hope to find them, waiting for those words to find meaning again. Over the clattering of her own shivering teeth, she can hear the sounds of whispers, their two fearless leaders discussing a plan of action. But in the middle of storms like this, nature doesn’t care about plans, rips them apart before your eyes. No, the only way they were making it out of this mountain alive was on the back of a miracle. Maybe there was one still holding out for them yet. 

It’s when she lights a cigarette to mask the smell of the drying blood on her hands that their cart comes to a full stop. Part of her wonders if their horses had finally given out, but then she hears the talking. Beside her, her companion, Charles turns to her with a look of concern, and she almost feels regret for having so easily forgotten he was beside her. Charles had always been a quiet man, a kind man, like her, he was never used to sitting around and waiting. But he was cradling a wound on his hand, and she was too busy caring for others. Failing, but there was nothing to be done for Davey, however it seemed there was still something waiting for the rest of them.

“It’s Arthur.” Charles announces, and Tulip can’t help but still be amazed at how perceptive the man was even when she herself couldn’t see a thing, but more than that she can’t help the jolt of relief at hearing Arthur was alright. But she needed to see it too, peaking over the barrier of the carriages seats, making out the shadow of a horse approaching through the snow, the lantern he carried lighting his way. 

“You think he’s found some place to stay?” She can’t help but wonder, but Charles just shrugs, never one for hopeful thinking and they both strain their ears to listen to the conversation happening before them. They don’t hear much, maybe something sounding like ‘ _ shelter’  _ but they’re too doubtful to have much hope. It isn’t until Dutch shouts at them to get moving, a clear hint of enthusiasm in his voice that she starts believing again.

Much like a child eager to get home, she springs up to her knees again, tugging on the endings of Hosea’s coat, knowing the man would tell it to her straight, facts and all. “What’s goin’ on?” 

Hosea turns his head, face softening like he’s reminiscing on that nostalgia she’s playing off too. “Well, Dear, I do believe our Arthur has found a place for us to rest our heads” he half grins. “Whether or not it’s a good enough bed remains to be seen.”

“Now, Mr.Matthews, I won’t have none of that talk.” Dutch interrupts, turning to spare her a signature smile now. “I’ve got a good feeling about this place. Things are gonna start looking up, I promise you that, Tulip.” 

Tulip smiles back, for all her thoughts on dread Dutch always had a way of bringing her back to the light. It's the thing that dragged her into this gang in the first place, that sliver of hope. She finds herself holding on to it now, even as her back slides down to sit on the bumpy floor of their moving carriage, even as she spares a hardened look at their deceased friend Davey lying beside her. She spares another at the living Charles, they share a sure nod, a promising nod, and she closes her eyes against the puff of her dying cigarette. At least they were moving forward.

 

  
  
  


  
  



	2. A Woman Burning

When Tulip opens her eyes again it's to the sudden lurch of their carriage coming to a halt, Charles nudging her on the shoulder with a declaration that they’ve arrived. It takes her a second to remember, remember that they were still stuck on this mountain, remember that there’s a corpse riding by her side, and how exactly that body got there. But Dutch had promised them shelter, and even if this wasn’t a home, it would have to be enough for now.

With a quick grunt, her muscles straining against the sudden movement after sitting on her ass for so long, she brings herself upwards and out into the snowy terrain before her, the winds hitting much harder now that there wasn’t a canvas blocking them out. She shivers against the cold, pulling the scarf around her head all the more closer as she watches the three other caravans before her unload themselves of its people. One by one, they land on the snow covered ground before them, shivering or frowning, as if anger or annoyance was enough to keep them warm.

Tulip pauses before she moves to start greeting, looking around to see just exactly what kind of land they’ve made camp on. Its an old looking town, abandoned buildings caving in on themselves, only a few structures still relatively livable in. A little bit down the road she squints and sees the distinct shape of a cross half crumbling, but still standing on its perch on the top of what she can only assume now as a church. She huffs at the sight of it, her breath coming out in a burst of air before her as she’s reminded of the man that didn’t make it. Reminded of the gravity of their situation still. Her fingers reach of their own volition to the golden chain wrapped around her neck, to the pendant hanging at the end and buried underneath the layers of her clothing. She was never a religious women, but there were some rituals she just couldn’t seem to work out of her system from her youth. What little remains of that past takes shape of Saint Jude on her neck, and she presses a kiss like a silent prayer against the symbol, hoping, praying they weren’t as lost as they seemed.

“Come now, Tulip. We’re not so hopeless yet.” Like an answer to her prayers, the man responsible for finding them this temporary haven sneaks his way behind her, a teasing smile on his face despite the circumstances. It felt good seeing him again, Arthur wasn’t a part of the whole mess down in Blackwater, whatever that mess may be, and she was glad to have him by her side still. She couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

Arthur brings a stern hand to her shoulder, the smile now gone as he levels them both down to sincerity. “I heard about, Davey.” He says, solemnly. “There was nothin’ more to be done, you know that.”

Her hand finds its way to cover his own in reassurance. It was true, what happened with Davey was unfortunate to say the least, but his death wasn’t what had her so irregular. “I was thinking about the church over there.” She mentions. “I know neither of us are the kind for prayers, but I figured we could all use a little guidance when we rest.”

Arthur nods, eyes heavy on the frame of the church. “I’ll see what we can do.” And she knows he means it. She wasn’t asking for a full service, just a few words, a burial, something to put it all to rest.

“How you holdin’ up, Arthur?” The question slides off him just like most compliments do, he shrinks in himself like his well-being wasn’t something to worry about.

“Me? I’m fine, Darlin’, always am.” Course, he wouldn’t out right say if he wasn’t, but she’s seen the heavy set in his eyes no matter how hard he tries to hide it. His shoulders sink with the weight of Blackwater’s mistakes, crazy how one bad day could start turning a believer to doubt. “I’m just worried about getting everybody warm.”

_Surviving_. That’s all that matters now. All of life broken down to its bare necessities, the hierarchy of needs. Warmth. Shelter. Food. Course, if you asked half the lot here they’d find a way to sneak in money before either one of those three. They never claimed to be saints, but right now they couldn’t afford to be stupid either. She knows there’s still a bitter taste in the air over the money left behind, hell, if she stayed out here long enough she’s sure her mouth would start turning sour too. But that was the cold talking, the hunger. Greed would just have to learn to wait for them yet.

Three of the men carried Davey from the carriage, wrapped his body in a loose sheet to mask the smell while they waited for the right time to bury him. It’s not a big shelter, this building Hosea leads them in with a lantern lit like a beacon to safety, but even if they’re bumping elbows as they shuffle in, they can’t deny the sense of relief that washes over them knowing they can rest for now.

However, resting don’t come too easy, not with a corpse lying idly by. “ _Is he dead?”_ They’d all come up to ask her, as if doubting it enough would make it not so. For the sake of morale she nods her head, stands in front of the corpse so their curiosity stays satiated. She wants to tell them he passed peacefully, that a bullet to the chest bleeding out in the freezing cold was anything but the hell she was witness to, that he wasn’t begging for a forgiveness she couldn’t grant him the entire ride through. For the sake of morale, she keeps her mouth shut, figures not speaking at all would save them all from the truth.

But there was a power to words, and no one knew the importance of them better than the man of the hour himself. Dutch van der Linde walks into the room, a mass of black fur and determination that they all turn their heads to without prompting. He carries around him an air of authority, but most importantly, respect that she could only wonder at in awe. She knows the type of speech he’s about to spew, the kind that turns a bad situation like this into opportunity, and a hopeless crowd into believers. It was a tool in the shed of every good leader, but what made Dutch a great one was that he actually meant every word of it. There was not a soul in this shack that didn’t owe their life to the man before them, who without prompting has saved them, and would save them time and time again. It went beyond loyalty, the kind of love reserved for families, and if there was one thing you learned from your time around him it’s that the word _brother_ had nothing to do with just blood.

He turns to leave them, a small list of orders their only guidance. Stay warm. Stay strong _. Stay Loyal._ And while the rest of them may nod and turn, eager to do their part in making camp, Tulip marches forward.

“Let me help, Dutch.” She urges without greeting, her restlessness for staying still at its teetering edges. She can already see the argument on both his and Arthur’s faces, and before it can slip from either of them she tries again. “We both know I’ll be of much more use to you out there.”

Dutch turns to Arthur and grins, turns back to her with a chuckle. “Every single one of these fools is scrambling to stay indoors in the warmth, yet you, Dear, are fighting for the cold? I can’t decide whether that's more admirable than foolish.” He teases, and even though it brings a frown to her face she knows he means nothing ill by it. “Hell, even Arthur here has fallen victim to the snow.”

“It ain’t exactly spring out there, Dutch.” Arthur grumbles in protest.

Dutch only chuckles more. “I know son, I know.” He soothes. “I also know that this gang needs your sure hand and stable mind to keep things in order while we’re gone, far more than I need an extra gun, Tulip. I’m trusting you and Hosea to calm the masses, so to speak. You’ll get your chance to ride soon, but right now you’re needed here. _No_ arguments.”

Tulip doesn’t dare, but a pout still finds its way to her face regardless. She can’t help that stubborn side from showing, but over the years she’s learned to push it aside, learned to recognize when she was wrong and when to insist she was right. Right now she wasn’t sure of either, but sometimes that was fine too. Even if it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, she’ll follow the guidance without snark.

Dutch rests a hand on her shoulder, looks her in the eye for reassurance. She nods, and he squeezes, urging her to stay safe, while she makes them promise the same.

 

____________

 

Work on the camp ain’t no easy job either, Ms. Grimshaw would make sure of that. Not even a minute after Dutch and Arthur find themselves in the cold does the woman wait to throw around orders, pointing fingers left and right, raising her voice where needs raising, and smacking around where needs smacking. And there was a lot of smacking to be had. Never has she seen how quickly the elements could turn a group of wild men into lazy dogs. The real testament to their resolve lies with the women of the group, how quickly they pick up on the other’s slack. In what took four men two hours to unload one of their carriages, it took three women one. Tulip finds herself in the company of her dear friends Tilly and Mary as the three finish unloading what little remains of their food supply down to the gangs cook, Pearson, hoping that with a bundle of potatoes he could fashion them up a simple stew.

They were all starving after all, with nothing but a bundle of crackers here and there to keep them going and sips of whiskey to keep it down. They finish unpacking what they could, the cold and the hunger getting to them, and like a family on Christmas morning, they sit around the fire indoors waiting for Dutch’s swift return.

“You think they’ll come back with the other’s?” Tulip hardly catches Tilly’s voice over the chatter, and it didn’t help much that she had whispered her words like a secret either. She understands though, knows that talk of death and failure ain’t exactly favorable conversation right now. But that’s why the two of them always got along, both had a pension for looking like a pair of soft girls on the outside, always capable of dealing with the hard when most wouldn't.

“Personally, I hope Micah stays lost in that storm. I’m sure his cold heart will feel right at home.” Tulip smirks while they continue chopping up potatoes for the meal.

Tilly chuckles beside her, shoving her shoulder into her side in a chastising way. “And I’m sure everybody here would agree with you on that.” She smiles, but that smile doesn’t last for long. “And what about John?”

The name alone is enough to put a halt to her movements, despite the tension it brings, she doesn’t let it linger. Still, the next time she brings the knife down against the food its with a much more pressing force. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She replies, tight-lipped and short. “Wherever he is.”

“You say that like he’s not coming back?” Tilly presses, a little more than Tulip was expecting. She tried not to let it show, but the resentment still finds its way to her face. Doesn’t take long for Tilly to notice either. “S-sorry. You know I ain’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Tulip sighs. “I know, I know. It's just-“ and her eyes can’t help but look up at the crowd before them, at a particular face half falling asleep while trying to keep up with their festivities. “I know the kid ain’t mine to worry over, but when I think about Jack and how he’s left him behind, well, I can’t help but feel sometimes he’s better off without a father who don’t even want him.”

Tilly nods. “I understand.” She agrees, and they drop it at that. “I just hope we aren’t stuck out here for long. I ain't never been a fan of winter.”

“Who knows,” Tulip drawls in reply, the sliver of a smirk on her lips. “Maybe after all this we’ll head someplace warmer, like the tropics.”

Over their laughter she hears the call of her name. Sitting by himself in a corner is Hosea, a book set out in front of him and a drink in the hand that isn’t currently waving her over. Because it’s him, she doesn’t feel too bad about suddenly leaving her duties, with a quick smile she sits her knife down, wipes her hands on her pants and walks over.

“What can I do for you, old man.” She teases as she grabs the seat in front of him and sits down with a plop. “You know, if Ms.Grimshaw finds you're keeping me from my work she’s sure to blow some steam.”

Hosea chuckles at the thought. “Oh I’m sure she’s blown enough steam for today. We all have.” He assures, offering her up his drink which she takes gladly. Whiskey ain’t much for keeping the head straight, but it worked wonders for keeping the body warm. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you since we arrived, but with things being as hectic as they are and such, well, I figured we had time now.”

Tulip nods. “I’m listening.”

“It’s about Davey, I know that must’ve not been easy on you.” He soothes.

“Ain’t nothin’ to it, we’ve had people die before. It's part of the life.” She deflects, takes a swig from her drink because she can already feel the man’s perspective eyes roaming over her. Knows that surely enough he’ll dig the real answer out of her.

Hosea leans forward, levels his eyes with her own. “This was different. A long death like that, and you were there for it all.” He points. “We’ve known each other a long time, Dear, I think I know when you’re puttin’ on a face.”

A face it was, and how quickly it was beginning to crumble. Hosea was right after all, he often is. Tulip swallows hard against the truth, but it comes out anyways. “It wasn’t so much the death, ain’t the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.” She begins, her lips quivering as she thinks back to the way Davey’s bloodied hand clutched onto her own, to the way his voice could barely whisper his final words. She looks around the room and finds most of the others are occupied, not an eye looking their way, that’s the only reason she talks.

“It’s what he said to me, right before he passed. He kept going on about how scared he was, no matter how many times I tried telling him he was alright. I’ve never seen him so frightened, part of me couldn’t help but be afraid too.” She began, and sure enough, she’s seen plenty of people die in front of her, but never has she been present for a man’s dying wishes like that. “He asked me for forgiveness, Hosea, and I guess the worst part about it all is that I couldn’t give it to him. I didn’t say a word.”

Hosea doesn’t frown, doesn’t smile, and for a while he doesn’t say anything. He has a look on his face like he’s thinking, looking for the words to set her right. “You were there, Tulip. In the end that was enough. Can’t let the words of a dying man get to you, forgiveness ain’t so much a thing to be given more than earned.” Tulip nods, knowing as much. Truly she didn’t know why she’d let the event take such a toll on her, it must’ve been the cold finally getting to her. The danger of the past three days. “Arthur told me about burying Davey by the church. Maybe he’ll get the forgiveness he needs then.”

“Maybe so.” She agrees. “It’s just been a tough few days.”

“That it has.” He nods. “But we’ve been through worse, this storm won't last forever. Besides this cold weather might do wonders in settling some hot heads still lingering from Blackwater.”

“I still don’t know what went wrong down there. We had another good thing coming, thrown away for a half-baked plan.” Tulip can’t help but grumble, and no one felt the sting more than Arthur, Hosea, and her, having spent days planning, working people for another job. She supposes it just wasn’t moving fast enough for Dutch, but now look at them. “It was stupid.”

Hosea spares her a grin, but despite what his face says, a finger still comes up to correct her. “Now, don’t let Dutch hear you talking like that. I don’t agree with how things went down either, but we need to stick together, now more than ever.” Always the wise one, Hosea was.

Truth was she wasn’t angry, just confused, disappointed maybe. “I don’t blame Dutch for it, plans don’t always work out, it can’t be helped.” She solemnly agrees. “I just wish things went down differently.”

“We all do, my dear.” Hosea sighs. “We all do.”

With a sincere smile she thanks the man for the talk, stands up as he reassures her one last time. They’ll make plans for a funeral tomorrow, but right now she can’t help but feel she’s had enough talk about the dead, finds herself returning to the living, or at least the mildly so. Beside the fire was a small gathering of degenerates, doing what they could to pass the time, but stuffed between Mary-Beth’s warm embrace, and Karen’s half-drunken ramblings lies the one true source of her worry.

The ladies greet her as she kneels down, smiling as little Jack forces himself awake at the mention of her name. The boy rubs the sleep from his eyes, and when he looks up at her it’s with a love and familiarity she’s never felt she deserved. She was only ever doing the right thing by him, that’s all, but sometimes kids have a way of forcing out the best of yourself and making you realize the worst. Maybe Dutch was just rubbing off on her, his whole _thicker than blood_ routine. Or maybe she was just feeling empathetic, orphan to orphan.

“Ain’t it way past your bedtime, Kid?” She pokes with a grin. “Or have your two Aunts been keeping you up with their games?”

Karen chuckles, swaying a bit in her tipsy state. “I had nothin’ tah do with it, Tulip.” She points, bottle swishing with the movement. “The kids hard to say no to.” From beside her Mary shrugs in surrender, and Tulip can’t help but laugh.

But Jack doesn’t give her much time to argue, just shakes his head, puffs his chest out all stubborn. “I can’t sleep! I have to wait!”

Tulip cocks her head to the side, amused. “And what exactly are you waiting for?”

“I have to be here when he comes back!” Jack insist.

"When who comes b-“ And it hits her then, she knows exactly who he’s talking about, and how could she blame him. Kids spent his entire life waiting on his father only to have him come back just to disappear again. “Listen, Jack.” She tries, a sigh escaping her lips. “I can’t promise you Johns gonna be the first man walking through that door tonight, or even tomorrow, I hope-” and she pauses, knowing damn well what she was about to say, knows that she’s not too sure she believes those words. She was never one for false promises.

“I-I,” She tries again. “Well, you remember what I’ve always told you about waiting around.

Jack perks up, eager to prove himself. “You said time moves slower when you stare at a clock.”

Tulip smiles, proud. “That’s right. No use to waitin’ when there’s plenty else to do.” She reminded, quirking a brow up smugly. “Like sleepin’ for instance.”

Jack frowns, but despite his insistence to the contrary, a yawn still escapes his mouth. “But I'm not tired.”

“Sure.” Tulip drawls in a sarcastic tone. “You were just resting your eyes, weren’t you?” Jack’s eyes almost droop close in reply. “Well, how about we strike a deal?” They perk up instantly at that. “We do one thing, whatever you like so long as it's in doors, and you promise me that right after you’ll try to get some rest. Whatcha say to that?”

Jack smiles wide. “Okay!”

“Okay, but you have to promise, no arguments once it’s over.” She reminds him, and like most deals were sealed between the two, she brings her pinky out, waiting for him to settle it.

He nods, wraps his smaller pinky around her own tightly. “I promise.”

Tulip rest back on her heels, crosses her arms at her chest. “So, what will it be, Kid?”

“A story!”

“ _A story!”_ Karen cheerily butts in from beside them. “I do so love hearing your tall tales, Tulip.”

“A story?” Tulip comments again. Jack must’ve been real tired if the first thing that popped into his mind was the one thing he usually reserved for his bedtime anyways. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Both Jack and Karen, and hell, now even Mary-Beth herself seemed insistent on the idea.

Outnumbered and outdone, Tulip sighs in defeat. “A story it is then.”

What she wasn’t expecting however, was for Jack to jump up from his seat, a newfound spark to his step as he brings his arms up and waves them for attention, shushing the crowd of rowdy outlaws with as much might as he could muster.

“Everybody! Everybody listen!” Jack shouts, and Tulip sits up on his vacant spot as she watches on amused, and quite frankly, unaware. His voice grabs the attention of most of the members, it's the ones loudly conversing in a bubble of their own that he can’t seem to reach.

“Hey! You musty degenerates, listen up!” Karen, always the firm and helping hand, shouts loud enough to catch the remaining attention, and, she’s sure, that of a couple of straddlers outside if there are any. “The kids got something to say.”

What Jack says next is a simple request, quick and to the point. However, it’s far from what poor Tulip was expecting, nor hoping for when she stroke the deal. “Please be quiet! Tulips telling a story.” He finishes, walks back to Tulip whose eyes had practically popped out of her head in surprise and finds his rightful spot on her lap.

And then it starts.

“ _A story!”_ Lenny shouts from somewhere in the circle, her gaze finds him with a frown that he’s too quick to smile at. “Oh I do love me one of those!”

One by one the crowd joins, edging her on in a way that’s entirely to do with the fact that they were looking to embarrass her and not that they actually cared much for the sanctity of story time. Hell, even Hosea turns from the book he’d been reading in the corner to cheer her on as well. It seems they were all set on her being the entertainment tonight, and who was she to deny them of the pleasure.

“Fine.” She grumbles, forgets they can hardly hear her over their own amusement so she speaks again. “Alright! Alright! Gather ‘round then you miserable degenerates!” And funnily enough they do, turning from their seats, the more obnoxious bunch of the group even scooting closer like the children they were. Lenny, whose inhibitions she’s sure we’re running at half their capacity due to the drink, sits himself criss crossed on the floor a few feet in front of her, elbows resting on his knees, hands cupping his face

Tulip takes it with stride however, noticing the significantly cheerful mood coming from the _actual_ kid that this was for in the first place. Her pride could handle the damage.

She thinks for a bit, searching for a story that would satisfy the masses. She settles on one with a smile, and starts it off the only way she knew how.

“Once upon a time.” She starts, an abrupt round of scattered cheers from the crowd. “There was a house on a hill. A lone house on a cold hill that shined blue in the night. Now, you wouldn’t know it by day, but inside that house lived a girl, stranger than any girl you knew, stranger than our dear Mary-Beth here.” She joked, earning a laugh and a playful shove from the girl in question.

“She was strange because she didn't choose to believe in things most folks would like God, or Santa Clause. No, her faith lied with the fairies whispering secrets in the forest around her, the mermaids laughing in the lakes, and the monsters living in caves. Most importantly she believed that the moon had a heart, the sun a face, and she wanted nothing more than to shine as brightly as it did.”

“See, that house on the hill was lonely and dark, even when the sun came, it was a dull stain in comparison. And in turn the girl was lonely,and dark, and desperate to be seen.”

“What kind of wish is that?” Bill interrupts from his spot leaning against the wall. “It’s far too easy bein’ seen nowadays if you ask me.”

“Ain’t nobody askin’, Bill!” Karen shouts back, settling back down to listen closely. They all really were a couple of children.

“Now you may very well say she was wrong for feeling this way, and for a group of outlaws such as ourselves we aren’t too keen on being in the light and such.” Tulip explains. “But for this girl, things weren’t as simple as they are for you and me. While a price on your head may seem like a curse to any man, what this girl was dealing with was far less agreeable.”

“On that house there was a curse, as ancient as the hill it was built on. The girl couldn’t remember just how it got there, only knows the rules she’s gotta follow, and how to break it.” She continues, and on her lap little Jack starts to stir, head resting on her shoulder in a way that told her he was just about ready to pass out for good. “The rules go as such; Never could this girl leave her home, and never could another soul live there with her. It was a life of solitude she was cursed to, and living in that house for so many years had begun to drive her quiet mad. Seemed only fair that with a curse such as this, she would have some sort of inkling as to how to break it, and she did. The only way for her to leave that house, was for someone to come in and take her from it. Simple as that.”

“Only it weren’t so simple, and no one would ever find her where she was on her house on the hill, in the middle of a forest that spread for miles. The girl knew this, and with her time she realized she needed to be seen in order to be free. So she looked towards the one thing she knew could be seen from everywhere, no matter how far, and she grew envious to how brightly it shun. And so she made a plan.” Tulip shuffles a bit, adjusts little Jack on her lap as she looks for something in her pocket. If there was one thing she learned from Hosea and his many tales it’s that storytelling always played better with visuals. “She waited till it was dark in the night, were not even the sun could steal her light, and she grabbed a match.” She explained pulling out a match of her own as she brought it to life and continued. “She began with her bed, her sheets the quickest to light grew brighter and brighter by the second. She was fascinated by the flames, it felt like she could see the whole world dancing in them. She wanted to see more so she burned her curtains next, then the painting on her wall, the little clothes she had in her wardrobe. Lastly she turned to the one thing left standing, with a sweat growing on her brow, cheeks turned pink from the heat, part of her couldn’t bring herself to do it. After all, her books were the one thing that kept her company in her solitude, they were the reason she came up with this plan, but she knew what she had to do, knew that as much as she loved those old stories she’d make plenty more of her own. So, she burned that too, and soon that brightness grew and grew till that house on the hill was no longer blue and cold, but a beacon in the forest she was stuck in.”

“So the story goes.” Tulip sighs, just as the flame from her match begins to die and she swipes it away with the shake of her hand. “Once upon a time there was a house on a hill, a bright house, on a burning hill. A beacon in the dark. Alongside the house, minutes away, were a group of travelers, a young boy and his father. It was the boy that noticed the smoke, grown bored from their travels, but not tired enough to let that boredom turn to sleep. He squints his eyes as he follows the trail downwards, and surely enough he sees it, the burning flames just beyond the thick of the trees. He urges his father to stop, but his father would not listen. Instead all he could do was watch, a witness to the fire, but like the sun it burned too bright and sooner or later he turned away too.”

“ _ What?!”  _ A choir from the audience cries out in disbelief, and she remembers her own dissatisfaction with the story when she heard it years ago. But she understood it better now.

From beside her Karen sniffles. “They just left her?” She questions. “She died!”

Tulip shrugs. “I never said she died.”

“ _ But-“   _

Before their arguing could get started, their conversation is halted by the sudden sound of hooves just outside their door. They tense, fingers itching towards their holsters when a recognizable voice calls out to them.

“It’s Dutch!” Charles shouts through the hurling of the winter storm, and one by one they stand, story forgotten as they make their way towards their arriving companions. Jack, fully awake and expecting the sight of his father waiting for him in the snow, grabs her hand and leads her hurriedly outwards. Half of her hopes he’s right to be hopeful, the other half, well, she ain’t quite sure what that part of her was feeling.

But it isn’t the infamous John Marston freezing what little was left of his brains out in that storm, and as Tulip lifts little Jack upwards and out of the snow, she notices, amongst the three familiar faces is someone entirely new.

Dutch explains how Micah had found them a homestead not too far off, how O'Driscolls had beaten them to the place and the fact that they were still here told her everything about how that interaction went. The new face however, a woman in a nightgown with eyes casted downwards, well, she figured that was just another one of Colm’s trail of misfortunes he so often leaves behind.

“There might be more of them about.” Dutch continues, and it's not what he says next, but the way he says it that causes her ears to perk. “They've been scouting a train.”

Tulip knew what half restrained excitement sounded like, knew that despite their troubles, that train would not be so easily forgotten. However, it was late now, and this cold was enough to put a halt to whatever curiosity that train had sparked up.

“Tulip, why don’t you and Tilly take poor Jack and our Dear Mrs. Adler in doors to warm up” Dutch instructs, just as the rest of the gang heads on their own merry way as well. Tilly wraps an arm around the freezing new girl, and Mrs. Adler only spares her a small glance as they walk on ahead, but she doesn’t miss it. Doesn’t miss that look behind her eyes, she’s only ever seen a handful of times in her life. That fire that resides there.

They bring the poor lady inside, sit her by the fireplace with a cup of whiskey in her hand, and save for the small thank you that slips from her dried, shaking lips, her gaze stays trained on the flaming wood in front of her. It’s then that Tulip realizes she’s heard this story, that before her sat a woman who had been forced to change by life, the only way she knew how, the only way she could. By burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what I'm doing ever. This is just a game to see how many times I can reference Mitski lyrics in one story. Anyways, thanks for reading. Yeehawww!!

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I'm bored and I have too much time on my hands. Cowboys are made, Abigails die, and Johns are romanced. It's a short intro, but I'll try to update regularly. Anyways, yeehaww.


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